Shadow
by Tynan Jay
Summary: The end of the war has come, with only one more day.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

The war had come, advancing on the magical world so rapidly no one had seen it coming – not the aurors, not the Ministry, not Hogwarts. In fact, it was entirely possible the entire war could have come and gone before anyone could react, and the dark side would have won, Voldemort tearing up the roots of society to flush out the filth he believed tainted the world. Muggles would have been killed, muggleborns and half-bloods enslaved, purebloods given the riches of the world.

But, thankfully, this had not happened. Harry Potter – the boy-who-lived, Gryffindor golden boy, Dumbledore's man – had felt and seen the pale-faced, snake-like man's masked attendants storming Diagon Alley, the ministry, Hogsmeade. Voldemort himself went straight to Hogwarts, seeking out the last part of his soul, hidden within his enemy. He forced through the wards, still weak and undergoing repair, slamming through the front entrance... and was strung by his ankles to the ceiling, dropping his wand in surprise. At the other end of the rope: a grinning Harry Potter, a smug Ron Weasley, and a surprised, if impressed, Hermione Granger.

The capture had been easy. Locking a shell-shocked, body bound Voldemort in the dungeons had been easy. Standing guard outside the potions classroom, listening to the Dark Lord's outraged and insane ramblings had been (relatively) easy.

Killing him was not.

A furious, glowing eyed Harry had cast Avada Kedavra, putting every inch of bitter hatred into the spell, letting every negative emotion spill into his magic, fuelling it into an intense, incredibly powerful curse that would have sent any normal human sailing off their feet, soaring through the air to land in a crumpled and very dead heap on the floor.

Voldemort merely smashed into the wall behind him, crushed to the stone by the power of the curse, before sliding into a limp heap on the stone below him, unconscious and unlikely to wake, but still just about alive, his heart beating slower than a snail, but still going.

Several furious tantrums, two days of non-stop research, and seven hours of tear- and scream-filled objections later, it was decided.

Harry had to die.

And now they had only one more day. One more day to splash about in the lake with Ron and Hermione. One more day to play chess and exploding snap and gobstones with the Gryffindor boys. One more day to play flying 'it' with Ginny and the twins. One more day to laugh at Luna's bizarre comments and ideas.

One more day to live.

All too soon it was over, and Hermione and Ginny were smothering him with hugs, tears streaming down their faces. Ron and the twins didn't let them fall, but tears filled their eyes as they tried to brave it out, patting their friend and adopted brother on the back, ruffling his hair one last time. No one said a word as they watched Harry walk into the dungeon room, a tiny glass bottle in hand, filled with a sunshine yellow potion – so bright for something so destructive. But maybe that was fitting: if it worked like it was supposed to, the resulting explosion would be as terrible as the sun itself.

His bright green eyes swept over them one last time – his only goodbye – before he shut the door with a tiny snap that sounded, to his friends, like the bells of hell. There was murmur and then the click of the looks. Ron, the tears he'd tried so hard to hold back finally breaking loose, sprang forward, grabbing at the handle and tugging on the door with all his strength, screaming for Harry to open it. The others let him, not wanting to pull him back, knowing that if they did, another would likely take his place anyway.

Inside, Harry set down the bottle in the centre of the room, listening to the sound of Ron's screams from outside and feeling the wetness on his cheeks that betrayed a deep sadness his face didn't. He approached Voldemort's limp body, unmoved from where'd it'd fallen when he'd cast that not-so-fatal curse, and looked down at the reason why hundreds of men, women and children had been killed, the reason why too many youngsters would grow up parentless, the reason why many parents would die mourning the loss of a loved one, feeling the hate fill him again. With effort, he moved to the other side of the room, the bottle between the two enemies, and faced Voldemort. He lifted his wand, pointed it at the sunshine liquid, and let a second of pause fill the room before muttering that one final spell, a purple light spilling from his wand to smash into the bottle.

An explosion ripped through the room. The glass jars filled with specimens were smashed, the desks were torn from the floor and thrown to the walls, the atoms of everything in the room were shred to pieces, leaving it settled in a thick layer of dust. When Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Fred and George finally broke in sometime later, the only thing left of their friend, brother, saviour was a body-shaped shadow on the wall, a section of the room that had been spared of the blackness that scorched everything else, by Harry.


End file.
